


Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dancer

by CarolineShea



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 08:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10509738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarolineShea/pseuds/CarolineShea
Summary: In which there is ballet dancing and sweet lady kisses (followed by the NC-17 version of kisses). Super-fluffy future fic written during Season 3. <3





	

_Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dancer_

 

 

When Santana arrives home from work, nine times out of ten the pounding beat of hip-hop music is there to greet her, rising from Brittany’s practice room in the basement.

On the days when it _isn’t_ , it’s because Brittany is soaking her sore, bruised feet in the bathtub after an exhausting day of work. She loves her job as a modern-dance teacher, but it puts a severe physical strain on her body - Santana can’t help but worry sometimes that Brittany pushes herself beyond her limits.

But there isn’t any music blaring today, and Brittany also isn’t in the bathroom of the tiny two-bedroom house on the outskirts of the city that they’d bought together a few months ago.

Britt?” Santana says curiously, pushing open the door to their bedroom. No answer. She checks the guest room, the living room, and (this is Brittany, after all) the coat closet, but sees no sign of her girlfriend. As a last resort, she opens the door to the basement and is surprised to hear just the lightest, faintest strains of music drifting upward – something classical and orchestral that Santana doesn’t recognize.

She descends the steps cautiously, rounds the corner at the bottom of the stairwell – and stops short at the sight before her.

Brittany is _dancing._

Not her usual style, either; not the hypnotic and highly-pelvic gyrations - the tightly-controlled routines that are designed to look as uncontrolled as possible – that she performs on the stage, in the studio, and occasionally even as a back-up dancer in television commercials.

She’s dancing to _ballet_ music. She’s wearing a black sleeveless leotard and a tiny, sheer pink wrap-around skirt that emphasizes her long, lean legs. Her hair is swept up into a chignon and there are black satin ballet-flats covering her beautifully-arched feet.

She appears to be lost completely in the moment, spinning out a series of graceful pirouettes and then lifting her left leg high and straight behind her, finishing the exercise in an elegant arabesque.

“Brittany, babe…” says Santana softly, not wanting to startle her girlfriend.

Brittany catches Santana’s eye quickly and smiles, stepping out of her arabesque. “Hi,” she says with a bright smile, swiping hastily at the perspiration on her forehead. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Yeah, I just got in. What – what are you doing, babe? Did you get a gig at a… ballet company or something?”

“Mm-mm,” says Brittany with a shake of her head. “I’d never get hired at one. I haven’t had a ballet class in, like, super-long, but I miss it sometimes, so… I don’t know. It’s just for fun; I probably suck now, anyway.”

“No,” responds Santana instantly. “No, babe, you were beautiful. I had no idea you were that good, actually.”

“Were you ever a ballerina?” asks Brittany curiously.

“Please,” Santana snorts. “You _know_ Coach Sylvester only wanted me on the Cheerios because I was good at tumbling and I was a powerful jumper. I was never graceful like you. I could never make my body move like that.”

Brittany catches her gaze and holds it, looking at Santana questioningly. After a few seconds of what looks like deliberation, Brittany extends her hand: “Come here,” she says.

Despite her misgivings, Santana closes the distance between them. “What’s up?” she asks uncertainly.

Brittany touches Santana’s shoulders gently and spins her around so that they’re both facing the same wall, Brittany standing about a foot behind Santana. Brittany kneels down behind her suddenly and slides her hands down Santana’s calves until she reaches the tops of her ankles.

“What the hell, Britt”-

“Ssh,” she says. “I’m showing you that you can do this, Santana. Here, turn out your feet… like… yeah, like that.”

Santana feels _extremely_ moronic, standing in the basement with her feet pointing toward opposite walls, still in the navy-blue slacks and white button-down shirt she’d worn to the office. “Britt, I don’t think this is”-

_ “Perfect,” _ Brittany praises, standing up slowly behind her - and Santana can’t help but be a little pleased at the obvious approval in her girlfriend’s tone.

“This is… first position, right?”

“See? You do know ballet.”

Santana huffs. “So I took it for, like, two years in junior high. Sue me.”

Brittany stares at her blankly. “How would that even work? We have, like, the same bank account.”

Santana bites her lip to keep from laughing. “Good point,” she says. “That was a dumb idea.”

“ _Really_ dumb,” agrees Brittany, nodding. “Okay now – stay in first position. We’ll do a demi-plié.”

“Oh my god, Brittany. I haven’t done one of those in years, there’s no way”-

Brittany steps forward suddenly, pressing the front of her body against Santana’s back and settling her hands low on Santana’s hips. “I’ll help you,” she says calmly.

Santana feels a low, curling shiver of tension work its way up her spine. 

“Now just breathe first, Santana. Breathe with me; deep and slow. You’re always so tense after work.” 

Santana closes her eyes and follows Brittany’s instructions. She pays attention to the physical sensations; the light scent of Brittany’s sweat and the feel of Brittany’s warm palms curving around her hips. The strange sensation of breathing in tandem; the whispering rush of air against her scalp as Brittany exhales and the rise and fall of Brittany’s chest against her back. 

“Now,” says Brittany, settling her feet into first position behind Santana, aligning their bodies together _just so._ “Bend your knees. Make sure your back is straight and keep your knees over your toes. And don’t lift your feet off the floor.”

Slowly, Santana bends her knees outward, feeling the muscles of her thighs twinge slightly in protest. Brittany moves with her, their bodies bending downward in unison. 

“Nice, Santana,” praises Brittany. “Okay, now _hold_ … good, that’s good. Now when we come back up, lift up onto your toes – that’s called a _relevé_. Three.. two… and”-

They rise out of the demi-plié together and Santana stretches herself up on her tiptoes. 

“Now back down onto flat feet in first position again.” Santana obeys. “Do you remember second position?”

“Um. I think so. You spread your legs apart a little, right?”

“Mm-hmm. About twelve inches apart. Just copy me.” And Brittany spreads her legs behind Santana, shifting her hips slightly as she does so. “Now you, Santana. Just line your feet up with mine. Make sure to keep them turned out, like in first position.”

Santana slides her feet apart as best she can, settling against Brittany. “Okay,” she says. “Now what do I”- 

But the sentence remains unfinished, because Brittany has taken her left hand off Santana’s hip and begun sliding her palm toward… toward...

“Brittany,” chokes out Santana. “What are you"-

 “Sorry,” she whispers, with a little laugh. “You just look _totally_ hot right now.”

 “Because I’m dancing?”

 “Mmm,” hums Brittany. “And because you’re gorgeous. And – because you’re, like, doing what I say. You don’t do that very often. Here – spin out in front of me. Give me your hand, babe.”

Brittany laces their fingers together and raises their hands high above their heads, twirling Santana under her arm and away from her. It’s a welcome sensation for Santana; the feel of her hair whipping around her head as she spins, that dizzying swoop of weightlessness as her body tries to figure out where it is in relation to the rest of the world. 

 “Now what?” says Santana breathlessly as she comes to a stop as gracefully as she can.

 “Now spin back,” says Brittany quietly.

 “Toward you?”

 Brittany squeezes Santana’s hand with her own. “Yes, toward me,” she says. “Always toward me.”

 It’s in the back of Santana’s mind – the urge to ask _What the hell is up with you today?_ – but she ignores it in favor of letting Brittany guide her through a quick pirouette until she’s back once more in her girlfriend’s arms – 

 And suddenly she’s letting out a choked, sharp gasp as Brittany hauls her up against her and _kisses_ her as though she’ll never be allowed to again.

Even though Santana has clearly stopped moving, the world _still_ seems to be spinning around her as Brittany tips her head back roughly and slides her tongue into Santana’s mouth.  The force behind it sends shock-waves through her, and when Brittany slides her hands down past Santana’s hips and settles them possessively on her ass, Santana feels it straight down to her _toes._

“Fuck… _Brittany_ …” she whines.

“Yeah. _Yeah_ ,” agrees Brittany, her voice shaking as she skims her hands up Santana’s sides and starts attacking the buttons on her shirt. “Help me, babe. Get your pants off,” she commands against Santana’s mouth before fusing their mouths together again.

“ _Mmm_ …” whimpers Santana into Brittany’s mouth as her trembling hands start in on the top button of her slacks and begin yanking hastily at the zipper.

Brittany lets out a low groan as she finishes the last of the buttons on Santana’s shirt and then slides her hands roughly down to Santana’s hips, impatiently tugging down her slacks until they’re pooled around her feet. 

Santana thinks vaguely that they must be _quite_ a sight right now. Brittany, poised and elegant in her leotard, ballet skirt, and dancer’s shoes - and Santana standing there in her underwear, her blouse open and unbuttoned, clinging to her shoulders, and her professional work pants down around her ankles. But it’s hard to care, really, when Brittany’s breasts are rubbing against hers; when Brittany is sliding her left hand into the back waistband of Santana’s black-lace underwear and palming the curves of her ass.

Brittany leans down and whispers directly into Santana’s ear, “I want it, Santana. _Fuck_ , I want it _so_ bad. I want _you_ ”- and she darts her tongue out to lick _right_ inside the shell of her ear. Santana jerks back, feeling a warm shock of heat course through her veins –

\-  and overbalances. Still tangled in the arms of her girlfriend and unable to correct her stance due to the fabric trapping her ankles, she falls and lands on the dance mat with Brittany splayed out on top of her.

"Fucking _ow_ ," hisses Santana. "Dammit, sorry, I"-

"Don't be," says Brittany darkly, executing a maneuver _so_ sexy and fluid that it should be illegal - flipping herself over and pushing herself onto her hands and knees - hovering directly _over_ Santana, who's still flat on her back on the mat.

Brittany tangles her fingers into Santana's hair and seals their mouths together, sweeping her tongue into Santana's mouth and grinding their hips together. Santana, shocked and _desperately_ turned on, responds eagerly while still managing to kick her shoes off; she vaguely registers the low, reverberating _thuds_ as one hits the ground and the other hits the wall. She twists her hips and slides her legs together frantically in an attempt to kick off her dress slacks and peel off her socks and all the while _kissing Brittany back, kissing back, always **always** kissing her- _

 "Oh my _god_ ," she gasps out as Brittany lowers her mouth to her neck and slides her hand underneath Santana's bra, palming her breasts with soft, skillful hands and dextrous, exploratory fingers. 

"I love you like this," sighs Brittany. "You are so seriously _hot_ , Santana _."_  

And god - that's the thing _about_ Brittany. She can't lie to save her life and has no clue how to deliberately talk dirty - whatever thoughts float into her brain come spilling out of her lips, and she means _exactly_ what she says.

 For someone like Santana, who learned from an early age that the keys to success involve lies and schemes and a flawlessly-constructed facade, being around someone as open and guileless as Brittany is both freeing and _completely_ addictive.

"Brit- _Brittany_ ," she chokes out as Brittany snakes herself down Santana's body, kissing her breasts and laving her tongue over her nipples. She tries to sit up, to start giving Brittany as much attention as she herself is getting, but Brittany presses her back down with the flat of her palm against Santana's torso. 

"No, Santana," she says. "Just _let_ me."

With a surrendering groan, Santana lies back and lets Brittany continue her ministrations.

That's the thing about dancers, too, she supposes. It's easy to look at Brittany twirling around the stage in a tutu and think, 'Oh, what a dainty, _delicate_ little thing.' 

But the truth is that there's little about Brittany that's dainty _or_ delicate. Not the steadiness in her expression as her eyes burn into Santana's from above. Not the wiry strength in her arms as they hold Santana down. Certainly not the firm muscles of her thighs as they straddle Santana, keeping her in place. Not her fingers as they slide slickly into Santana, twisting up inside her with a sure, confident rhythm designed to make her _fall the fuck apart_ -

Which she does, of course - her hands digging into the floor, the muscles in her thighs and abdomen clenching tightly, her back rising off the mat, her hips bucking up to meet Brittany's fingers, the dizzying euphoria as her orgasm crashes over like a wave, a sharp blossom of heat that pulses outward, spreading a dusk-rose flush across her body and wrenching a high, helpless cry from her throat.

"Brittany," she chokes out as the fluttering sparks of after-shocks race through her. " _God_..."

As soon as she gets her bearings, she _yanks_ Brittany down until she's sprawled on top of her - crashing their lips together - sliding their tongues together - twining their limbs together. It's frantic, wild, _messy_ \- a sharp clash of tongues and teeth and wet, nipping kisses. Santana reaches back and eases the butterfly-clip out of Brittany's hair as carefully as she can and lets out a low, satisfied sigh at the sight of her girlfriend's hair falling down around her shoulders.

They grind their hips together then, Brittany letting out a low, heated moan at the sensation. They twist around one another, tangling themselves together until tanned skin is splashing against pale skin - and coin-gold curls are twisting around ink-black locks - and dark-red lips are sliding wetly against rose-pink lips.  They switch positions then, Santana hovering over Brittany, who spreads out underneath her, flushed, panting, and quivering.

" _Santana_ ," she pleads, looking up at her with glassy, hazy, half-lidded eyes. 

"Fuck," swears Santana vehemently, her hands flying down to the bottom of Brittany's leotard. She can't even wait for the seconds it would take to strip her out of it. She flips Brittany’s little pink skirt up onto her stomach and shoves the fabric covering her crotch to one side, exposing the pink, glistening folds just _begging_ to be touched and teased. She eases two fingers inside, watching Brittany let out a gasp of relief as her muscles clench around her. Santana starts up a rhythm with her fingers, watching Brittany’s reactions, and _god_ \- 

_ She's so fucking gorgeous. _

The sight of her breasts bouncing as she breathes in and out sharply, her hips grinding shamelessly into the dance mat, her fever-flushed face and the startling blue of her eyes as they flutter open and closed with each jolt of pleasure that surges through her.

"Santana... _ohh_..."

Brittany lets out a soft, aching sigh that echoes off the basement walls and sends an unexpected shiver zipping up Santana's spine.

"You want my mouth, Britt?" she whispers.

Brittany bucks her hips up sharply. "Do you... really have to ask?" 

She smirks. "No. But can you say it, anyway?"

" _Yeah_ ," she breathes out. "I want your tongue on me, Santana. I want it, _please_."

"You want it on you _and_..."

Brittany groans. "...and in me. I want it _in_ me."

Santana has always believed in rewarding good behavior. She slithers down the length of her girlfriend's body, eases her legs further apart, tugs the material of Brittany's leotard more sharply toward the side, lowers her head - and flicks her tongue out, swirling it in slow, teasing circles over the pad of Brittany's clit and licking firm, wet stripes at the sensitive skin surrounding it. 

Brittany shudders and moans below her, her hips thrashing a little against the mat as Santana revels in the scent and taste of her, bringing her close to the edge over and over again without _once_ letting her crest over it.

When Santana finally slides her tongue _into_ Brittany, Brittany full-on _writhes_ below her, letting out a sharp, aching groan-

She eases her tongue back out. "Hold still, babe."

"It's hard. I can't - fuck, it's _so good_ ," she gasps. "It's  _too_ good. I feel like I'm floating or... flying or... _falling_. I feel like I'm falling, Santana."

"I'll catch you," Santana promises as she lowers her mouth once more and uses her vicious, _vicious_ tongue - and three of her fingers - to get Brittany off. 

 “ _Uh_... _ngh_ …” Brittany gasps as her hips arch up. “Oh, fu – _uuuck._ Santana, Santana, _fuck_ ”-

It's all over. Brittany comes with a scream, her fingers tangled in Santana's hair and her head thrown back in ecstasy. Santana leaves her fingers where they are, wanting to feel the wetness and the heat and the tight, fluttering spasms that let her know just how fucking _good_ she made Brittany feel. 

When she finally does slide her fingers back out, Brittany pets Santana's hair gratefully while Santana presses soft, soothing kisses to her girlfriend's thighs.

"So beautiful..." she whispers. "You wanna go upstairs? Take a shower? Watch a movie?"

Brittany shakes her head. "No," she whispers. "Wanna dance some more. You wanna dance with me?"

Santana gapes at her. "After that? Yeah fucking _right_. You seriously have the energy to dance?"

Brittany smiles. "I always want to dance."

 She lifts herself off Brittany, sitting back on her heels. "I'll watch you," she offers. "I mean - can I? Do you mind?" 

Her girlfriend's face lights up. "Of course you can. I'd _love_ that."

Santana stands up and takes a few steps backward to give her girlfriend room to move.

It shouldn't be possible - it can't be possible - but it's true: Brittany's even more beautiful now. Her hair messy and free and flying and her face flushed-pink and gorgeous and her eyes _sparkling_ (since when do people's eyes actually sparkle?) and her limbs looser, her movements more free and fluid-

"...that's a _jeté,_ right?"

"Mm-hmm," says Brittany. "A _petit jeté."_ She springs into the air suddenly, criss-crossing her feet twice before landing. 

"No idea," admits Santana. "It was impressive, whatever it was."

"It's an _entrechat_ , silly."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Well, of course."

Brittany spins around, quickly whipping her body in a circle, her left toe on her right knee. "That's a _fouetté,"_ she announces with a spritely flourish.

Before Santana can even react to that, Brittany performs an extremely complicated maneuver, a breathtakingly lovely succession of spins that leaves her feeling awestruck.

_ "Soutenu en tournant,"  _ clarifies Brittany once she finishes, breathing heavily. "I haven't done that in, like, forever. How did it look?"

"I... it..." Santana shakes her head, genuinely at a loss. "Brittany, you _..._ doing that... was maybe the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Brittany gazes measuringly at Santana. After what seems like a long moment, she lifts herself onto her toes, stretches her left leg out gracefully behind her, and sinks down toward the floor, kneeling down on one knee with her back straight, her head held high, and one hand extended outward toward Santana.

"What's that move called?"

"It's not called anything. It's not a dance move at all."

Brittany's expression never wavers.

"This is me proposing to you, Santana."

All the air leaves the room.

Santana can't breathe. 

She can't see, she can't _feel_ , she can't-

"Wait there," says Brittany - as if there's even _a chance_ of her going anywhere. Brittany stands up and crosses the room, approaching a hook on the wall that has several pairs of her worn out dance shoes hanging from it. "I put the ring in a pair of my toe shoes," she says quietly, pulling out a small black jewelry box from a pair of pink satin ballet slippers.

Santana's trying to get a grip on herself, she is. She's feeling overwhelmed... and - and happy, yes, god, _so happy_... but there's a feeling that she can't shake. It feels... like when Coach Sylvester had told her that Quinn would be Head Cheerio. She'd been angry because - well, that position had belonged to _her_. And it had been taken away from her so abruptly...

" _I_ was going to ask," she blurts out before she can help herself. "I mean, I wanted to ask _you_."

Brittany shrugs. "When were you going to?"

"Well, I - I hadn't exactly gotten that far..." she trails off. "But I _totally_ would have. Eventually."

Brittany takes a step toward her, her blue eyes calm and piercing at the same time.

"I love you, Santana Lopez. I love you and that's why... that's why I'm going to tell you this. I'm only saying it once, and I'm not saying it to make you feel bad, I _swear_."

Santana nods, stunned into silence.

"Santana, I... pretty much loved you from the second I saw you. And, like, when we were thirteen? Do you remember? You made us those friendship bracelets, and you said, "Let's be best friends now,' and I was like, 'Oh, yeah, awesome. Cool.'"

Santana nods. "I remember."

Brittany takes a deep breath. "Santana, I'd _already_ thought of you as my best friend for a long time before that. When you kissed me for the first time, you told me you'd been thinking about doing that for a few weeks - but Santana, I'd been thinking about kissing you _for two years."_

"When you finally got around to telling me you loved me, I'd already been in love with you, like, a long-ass time. When you finally got around to asking me to be your girlfriend? I'd been hoping for months that you would wise up and ask me."

"Even when we got this house, Santana - didn't you ever wonder how we scored it so soon after you asked me to move in with you? It's because I'd already been looking for places for us to live."

Santana shakes her head in confusion and wonder.

"And yeah," says Brittany, her voice shaking slightly, "I figured out a long time ago that our relationship works better if I let you think things are _your_ idea - but you have to understand something, Santana - _I'm_ the one who's been planning for us all along. I'm the one who's been trying to figure out where we'll live and what we'll do and how we'll make it all work, and then once I do, I just sit back and wait for you to finally get a clue. _That's_ how this has worked so far."

"But I..."

"So I know probably everyone thinks you're going to be the one to ask. But I'm tired of waiting, Santana. I love you. I'm _in love with you..."_ Brittany's voice breaks. "Will you - will you marry me, Santana?"

Santana raises a shaking hand to her face. She doesn't bother to stop the tears that are sliding freely down her cheeks. 

"Brittany..." She shakes her head. "I'm _so_ yours. Proudly so."

Brittany approaches Santana, flipping open the ring box. There sits a tiny, absolutely _stunning_ iridescent opal, flecked with green and surrounded by... 

"Are those diamonds?" asks Santana.

"Crystals," answers Brittany. "I know _you_ could care less about Blood Diamond, but I thought it was really sad."

Santana laughs a little, despite herself.

"God, Brittany," she says, as she slides the ring onto her left finger. "I just - I feel like this isn't even happening. One minute you're dancing and then the next... I just can't..."

Brittany steps forward, wrapping her arms around Santana's waist and tugging her closer.

“ _ Relevé _ ,” whispers Brittany, a gentle command.

Santana complies at once, tipping her face up toward her fiancée, lifting her heels gracefully off of the basement floor, and rising _en pointe_ to kiss her.

 

** FIN **

 

 


End file.
